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Goblins Delight

GOBLINS DELIGHT HM-M-Mcreated by Willowdown

this is the link to the publisher he has found
ID: 7735426 published by www.lulu.com

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Here are some Very Different Pieces of Poetry for you to read, different for they are poems, but they read in story form.


I haven't put these with the other classic poems, for obvious reasons. Wink

These stories are very funny, though I don't think they are ideal for the very young. Actually my grand daughter of 10 and her brother of 12, think they are brilliant, but I suggest you check them first.

A bit wicked, but such good fun.

From the Pen of a Magical Little Wizard,
whom we shall call



You have been chosen to receive the blessing of the Snow Fairy. 

The Snow Fairy can bring you good fortune for one whole year.

May YOU be blessed by his good deeds....


barebum and snowplough


A Brief Extract from
Tree Goblins
Dr.Dark's Potted Appreciation of the Domestic Goblin

The juvenile goblin is witty and gay with a subtle complexion of goat’s cheese and whey.
Whimsical nubs of a suggestive form adorn one or two but mostly they opt for a secretive horn.

The fuzz on the cheeks of the juvenile hob cause milkmaids to chortle ('though some of them sob); some cheeky goblins (I recall one called Bob)even spout hairs from their nethermost gob.

You don't want to meet this one on any night.... or day!

Beware the young Goblin, especially at night - they strain to inflict pure mayhem and fright; they like to kiss girls with a mouthful of toad, and tickle their fancies with horn, nub or node.

Even the Goblin of more mature years delights in reducing young maidens to tears - they hide behind trees and leap out and shout, then wave their arms wildly and snigger and pout!

But worst of the lot, opinions polls tell us
are the octogenarian goblinish fellahs.
They dress up as gents and upper-class knobs and frequent old pathways through marshes and bogs.
They'll offer to lend a young lady a hand then lead her to shifting and slippery sand.

They tickle such distressed young maidens with glee and then hide their bonnets quite high up in trees.An Ancient Weed Goblin, beware the eadly Nightshade!
They put squelchy slugs inside their best shoes and if asked to stop they simply refuse!

I once knew a Goblin, bent double and grey, who claimed to be ninety and seventeen morns - come waxing or waning or full-bodied Moon, he gibbered and drooled and brandished his horn;

he whispered and screeched, he prattled and crooned,
and made milkmaids wish they'd never been born.

Yet who can deny or dare to suggest the place of the goblin or that they retire or give it a rest, for Goblins are licensed by ancient decree to practice mischief and pure deviltry - better the Goblin of garden and common than genius loci of lands far and foreign,

Goblins like the fire-sideHow can a djinn or an old hairy faun compete with the goblins traditional horn?
So suffer the Goblin's bad habits with care and curse not the touch of his eczemous hair - despite the strange smell of the juvenile hob, it beats the aroma of some alien mob.

What milkmaid of sense, discretion and taste would let any old gremlin claw at her waist?A Goblin from Korea
She scorns with a sneer the advance of the pixie,
the Germanic kobold or Kentucky nixie.

The genuine goblin is all a girl needs
to curdle her milk and trample her seeds -why look abroad for crime and disorder when the brave local goblin is willing and able to scare the bejezus out of any mans daughter?

Could even be a Little Goblin or such.A saucer of milk or freshly brewed gin will sometimes elicit the gift of a pin, fashioned from copper or goblinish gold and unlike the treasure of faery or djinn, it seldom resorts to cobwebs or mould -

There's many a girl or toothless old maid that wears such a pin in some secret place and fondly recalls a goblinish face whilst sipping her rum or cool lemonade, and many a child to mother is born with more than a hint of nodule or horn!

The Easiest Way To Predict The Future Is To Invent it!

Please take this as it was written ....for fun Dodiesdreamworld



little boy with teddyYoung boys are nice in rissoles and girls make a delicious stew
 but best of all are babies - believe me, I've had quite  a few!
They're sweet, they're soft and they're tender and sing the most piteous song as they slide down your throat to your stomach
- the place they were born to belong!

Fathers are mean and bad tempered and mothers are ugly and cruel,

but babies have fair dispositions - I generally find as a rule.
I try to avoid ancient grandmas, they're stringy and tasteless and tough,
whilst sisters and nieces and aunties have tongues that at times can be rough. baby kiss

Young boys are nice in a rissole and girls make a delicious stew,
but the treat I like best is a baby - believe me, it's perfectly true!
Their bones are like crispy fried bean shoots,
their eyes are like seeds in red jam, their limbs are the wings on a sparrow, their belly-pork goes well with yam.

Yes, young boys are nice in a rissole and girls make a delicious stew.
But line little babies up for me, please- in a neat and orderly queue!
I'm not very fond of Great Uncles and stepbrothers leave me quite cold.
mummy and babyDomestic pets can help indigestion but too many cause excess gas-

If you don't mind a little suggestion avoid those with rashes or mould!
Terrapins make a nice starter and goldfish go quite well with cheese;little boy
but the main course, of course, is a baby with tasty and well-seasoned knees!

I don't mind the sex of the baby- there's little to tell them apart:
With both one end dribbles and splutters, whilst the other just piddles and farts.
O bring me a baby for breakfast, with fingers to dip in the yolk.
Or else bring `em fried or sunny side up -but scrambled is a bit of a joke.
Unless their prepared with caution and care they can go all gooey and run
and nothing is worse than skull, nails or hair, in one's teeth- it detracts from
the fun.

A young lad is nice in a rissole and girls they make delicious stew.
My favourite dish is a Sylvia Sandwich, followed by Custard and Sue.
Little Baby

A Peter is fine prepared in white wine, with fish and asparagus tips-but what can compare to a choice leg of Claire or Dorothy's fresh fingertips? Now some say it's vicious and hostile to eat little babies at all but once you have tasted their tender young flesh, other meats they wont do at all.

I try to behave circumspectly, I never eat orphans or twins.
I never touch mites, or lone kids on bikes, or fairies and angels with wings,
But young boys go well in a rissole and girls make a delicious stew; and best of all are the babies that crawl, straight up and burble at you.

Willowdown at Seligor's Emporium.co.uk copyright 2006. :)


At the Feast of Minutes
        the Goblins drink blood like milk,
        sucking on bones like licorice sticks,
        sucking the juice from kidneys and livers
        like children eat apples and pears,
        crunching up knuckles like tasty sherbet lemons.

        At the Feast of Hours
Like hoops of delicious spaghetti
        the Goblins dip their spoons
        into lovely human brains,
        slurping and smacking their leathery lips,
        savouring tendons like spears of asparagus,
        lingering over par-boiled ligaments
        like hoops of delicious spaghetti,
sitting down to eat
        munching pickled eyes
        like crispy cod-balls in batter.

        At the Feast of Days
        the Goblins chew thoughtfully on braised and toasted hearts,
        savouring tongues dipped in honey,

        burping and picking their teeth
        with their fingernails of elegant young d'butantes.

        At the Feast of Years
        the Goblins pick languidly at the glazed and sugared babies,
        popping their little skulls like the shells of roasted chestnuts,
        rolling their tiny hands and feet around in their mouths
        from cheek to cheek,
        regaling each other with witty after-dinner repartee
        and rubbing their swollen bellies with pleasure.
Imagswamp goblins
        At the Feast of Lives,      
        the Goblins groan and yawn,

        and one by one,
        nod off to sleep,
        to dream their Goblin dreams.

Very Colourful Don't You Think?
Who else but the Wonderful Willowdown.


On Market Day the elves come to Crossing-town to trade their  mysterious fruits and artifacts for rosy apples from Mrs Grundy's orchard and silver belt buckles made by Sam the Metal-smith.
Toby Moonwhiskers
Here is Toby Moonwhiskers, with a crystal jug of elixir he has collected from the beards of comets;

Here is Suzy Seventooth with a cats-cradle of Firecat gut.
Susy Seventooth
Will I see strange pictures if I stare into its complicated depths?
If I put my hand into the hazy light and shadows that obscure its hidden centre, will I pluck out a shimmering jewel or a rash-inducing thistle?

Old Man TwinklevisionOld Man Twinklevision, what will you give me for this very fine purse of calfskin, embroidered with the birds and beast of the forest and field -
a bucket of plums from the Faery Meadows,
a little clay statue of the Elven Queen painted in yellow and blue,
fairie mermaid or a pretty looking brooch that reverts to an angry bee, eager to sting its wearer.

On Market Day the pretty girls of Crossing-town search amongst the stalls for ribbons of cast-off faerie glamour;

if only one bright streamer or enchanted scarf does not revert to spider gossamer or river kelp there will be a lucky girl in Crossing-town that night and many jealous eyes watching her.
two little girls
Gold StarOn Market Day the village priest invariably wakes with a very bad headache and school teachers know there will be a shortage of tousled heads before them and less than the usual flicking of inky pellets on obscure but accurate trajectories.   

On market Day I lost my heart to a star that shone in broad daylight.
Gold Star
I followed her delicious laughter through the velvet gloaming to where the frogs and will-o-the-wisps play their ancient games on the sedged and willowed banks of Young Mans Mere.

night owl on branchOnly the melancholy cry of a passing owl stayed my feet from following her across a mystical causeway of fire.
Now I cannot abide the sound of owls, and shun the velvet gloaming.

On Market Day the elves come to Crossing-town to trade their mysterious fruits and artifacts for pipe tobacco and young girls favours

The next morning young men wake in gutters with the juices of alien berries staining their lips and young girls find ear-wigs and worms in their jewellery boxes.
On the morning after Market day the village priest is beaming
and school teachers groan in anticipation of a difficult day of elven catapults and stink-bombs.

Magical, W.

Do not meddle in the affairs of
for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup.



Henrietta the Spider is knitting
a night-cap of finely woven silver for her sweetheart,
with tassels all of fallen stars and a bobble made of blue cheese.
Where, where?
Under the Moon!
The King of the Frogs is beating a drum with an old chicken bone
and wonders why his belly is aching.
Silly King of Frogs, - it is your own stomach you are beating!
Where, where?
Under the Moon!

The Prince of Pastel City is standing beneath a balcony

with one foot in a bucket of cold porridge and the other in a pretty jewelled clipper.
"Marionette, sweet Marionette" he cries
"Will you not come out and dance for me?"
From the shadows of an ancient oak an owl regards him mournfully.

Where, where?
Under the Moon!

One day I was travelling upon the Golden Highway

between Crossing-town and Worlds End.
I saw a gathering of field elves dressed in ragged kilts and cast-off clothing
stolen from some Oxfam or Tenovus Charity store.
"Why are you dancing in ragged kilts and cast-off clothing obviously st
olen from some
Oxfam or Tenovus Charity store?"
 I asked them,
thinking it might make a worthy subject for dissertation at college or public bar.
but they pelted me with cow pats and vanished down an old mine shaft.
Where, where?
Under the Moon!

Goodness Henrietta, are you still here knitting,
how many heads does your sweetheart have,
and why are there so many dead flies and tiny bones in
the night-cap  you are making him?
Surely it will give him nightmares!
Every time I see you, you are knitting, knitting, knitting,
where and when do you find time to sweet talk your

Where, where?
Under the Moon, under the Moon.
Under the silvery, silvery Moon!


Now back to reality


 I found this funny poem in a magazine from many years ago, I seem to
think  it was by Alfred Noyes, one of my favourite poet's.
I hope you like it.

Alfred Noyes was born on September 16, 1880, in Wolverhampton, England to Alfred and Amelia Adams Noyes. His father, a grocer and a teacher, taught Noyes Latin and Greek. Noyes attended Exeter College, Oxford, but left before he earned a degree. At the age of twenty-one he published his first collection of poems, The Loom Years (1902), which received praise from respected poets such as William Butler Yeats and George Meredith

The Man who Discovered the use of a Chair

The man who discovered the use of a chair,
Odds, bobs              
                                           What a wonderful man!
He used to sit down on it, tearing his hair,
Till he thought of a highly original plan.

For years he had sat on a chair, like you,
Quite still!
                                                 But his looks were grim
For he wished to be famous (as great men do)
And nobody ever would listen to him.

Now he went one night to a dinner of state
hear! hear!
                                                       in the proud Guildhall!
And he sat on his chair, and he ate from a plate;
But nobody heard his opinions at all;

There was ten fat aldermen down for a speech,
(Grouse! Grouse!
                                                        What a dreary bird!)
 With five fair minutes alloted to each,
But never a moment for him to be heard.

But, each being ready to talk, I suppose,
Order! Order!
                                                   They cried, for the Chair!
And, much to the wonder, our friend arose
And fastened his eye on the Mayor.

"We have come," he said, "to the fourteenth course!
High time,
                                                            for the Chair,"
he said.
Then, with both hands, and with all of his force,
He hurled his chair at the Lord Mayor's head.

It missed that head by the width of a hair.
Gee whizz!
                                                     What a horrible squeak1
But it crashed through the bay window there
And smashed a bus into Wednesday week.

And the very next day, in the decorous Times,
(Great Gun!
                                                                 How the headlines ran!)
In spite of the kings and the wars and the crimes,
There were five full colomns about that man.


Oh if you get dizzy when authors write
(My stars!
                                                      And you very well may!)
That white is black and that black is white,
You should sit, quite still, in your chair and say:

It is easy enough to be famous now,
(Puff! puff!
                                                              How the trumpets blare!)
Provided of course, that you don't care how,
Like the man who discovered the use of a chair.

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